


Your Queen

by trascendenza



Category: Neverwhere - Gaiman
Genre: F/F, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-28
Updated: 2007-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-04 01:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trascendenza/pseuds/trascendenza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Fresh off the kill of the great beast of Calcutta, your back is as straight and strong as your spear.  You bow to no one.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the porn battle (fourth), prompt: bow ([mirror](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/317183.html?thread=14286847#t14286847)). How I love this pairing, let me count the ways.

She is full of sharp smiles and promises, sweet talk and swift fingers. She is a great warrior and does not have to tell you of her deeds—you see them in her movements, in the wariness that does not drop even as she escorts you deep into her inner sanctum. Her people are hard and you can see she has trained them well, because not for one moment do their eyes leave you: they do not trust you.

You quietly approve, but look down at them to show them their place. No great hunter cowers before servants.

The wasp-waisted woman who has hovered around you more annoyingly than the insect she takes her appearance from scowls, and you bare your teeth at her. She slinks away, eyes slitted and mouth compressed.

If Serpentine knows nothing of your beast as she lured you here with promises of, you will slay her wasp-waisted woman to teach her a lesson about wasting your time.

The servants open the door to a room covered from top to bottom in white—white furs, white fabrics, white stone, white lights, everywhere.

You look on with an appreciation: stepping into the room, she blends in effortlessly, except for her coal-black hair. Were she to sacrifice her need for vanity and cut her hair as you have, she would have every advantage over an enemy in this space.

You hold your spear closer to your side, prepared to draw it.

She sweeps her lacy wedding-like dress out behind her as she takes the ornate brass and silver seat at the back of the room.

"Sit, child," she says in her ice-coated voice.

There is only floor, other than her chair.

You continue standing.

She arches a dark eyebrow, and despite her frown, emanates pleasure. "You are a spirited one, I see. I have heard that about you."

You tire of her games and tap your spear into the ground, once. "Why have you summoned me, Serpentine?"

She crosses her legs, dress parting to reveal thigh-high white leather boots. You imagine her skinning the beast she must have taken that hide from—not but three left in the world—and reconsider your haste to leave.

"I am in need of your services."

You wait.

"There are… some disputes. My sisters and I, as I'm sure you know, have had most of our allies assassinated. We've hired that leech de Cabaras to find the culprit, but our guard has become sloppy and lazy over these years that we've been spoiling them. We need you." She leans forward, her eyes blazing like green fire. "We will _not_ have our lives threatened by some nameless fool."

Ah. That is the tension strung through her demesne: preparation for battle. It itches at the back of your shoulders, the coming fight, and you see it in her eyes, too. She is ready.

"Yes," you purr, nodding, already smelling the blood.

She smiles, still sharp, but now with a steel edge that gets your blood pumping. She stands.

"I know of your skill in battle from every fool in this city with a mouth, so I only ask one thing of before we are in contract."

You flex your fingers around your spear, ready for a sudden attack if that is her test.

Instead, she puts a hand on your shoulder, caressing your cheek with her other.

"Bow to me."

You looked at her in disbelief, move to draw away, but her hand closes over your shoulder like a claw.

"I said, _bow to me_."

You spit at her feet, too disgusted to speak.

You will not. You are fresh off the kill of the great beast of Calcutta, and your back is as straight and strong as your spear.

You bow to _no one_.

She smiles larger, a slash of sharp-toothed pleasure on her porcelain face. Her fingers move from your cheek to your lips, and linger at your bottom one.

"Bow to me, Hunter, and take me."

Your heart presses against your chest. Your anger and desire war—her smile is ferocious, beautiful, and you want her, but the thought of falling to your knees sickens you.

She takes her fingers from your lips and reaches behind her back, white strings falling as she arches, and the corset at her chest loosens and falls off.

She is white like the beasts of the North, tall and sumptuous. A woman of legend, before you: her name, you remember now, has been whispered since you were young, a call to arms, a fear used to subdue the weak and challenge the strong.

Her strength calls to your strength.

You fall to your knees before her, unable to fight any longer, unable to deny that you would have her.

Her hand scratches into the back of your head and draws you forward to her, one of her legs coming up to sling around your shoulder, white leather sliding along the metal of your breastplate. She smells like musk, like ice, like rain threatening to fall; you bring up a hand and caress her silken black hair, part her lips so that you might taste her, and you open your mouth to her, full and rough, because you know she is a warrior and that is what she wants from you.

"Take me, Hunter. I want you to take me," she orders, her hips jerking against you, opening to you, and you shove three fingers inside her slick folds, curling them towards yourself, pressing your tongue against her with your whole body. You take her and take her, taste her and push inside her until she screams and you are covered with the smell and stickiness of her.

She has scratched marks in your scalp, and you feel blood drip down the back of your neck. It roars through your head like a fine kill, and you lick your lips as she walks slowly back to her throne, her snow porcelain skin flushed slightly pink.

You smile, thinking you will see her like this often. She tastes even finer than the blood of a beast.

She sits, straight-backed and strong, crossing her legs, decked only in her thigh-high boots. Even disrobed she carries herself with more composure than a king in his full attire, her green eyes sharp even now, neck arched high, as is appropriate for her place.

If ever you will have a queen, you realize as you watch, it will be her.

"You're hired," she says.

You bow, hiding your smile, and take your leave.


End file.
